


fallen

by oddlyqueer



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Whump, hopefully the ending is hopeful enough to help you, i'm incredibly sorry, i'm sorry everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddlyqueer/pseuds/oddlyqueer
Summary: after the apocalypse, crowley is taken up to heaven. he thinks he's going to be forgiven for everything. well, he doesn't quite think that, but he hopes it, deep in his heart.he is wrong.





	fallen

**Author's Note:**

> tw for a Lot of angst, a little gore (nothing too intense), and some super fun self-hatred.

_ Crowley was falling.  _

_ It was much worse than the first time, worse by far. This time, he didn’t even have his wings. They’d decided to rip those off a few hours before, leaving him to struggle in a pool of his own blood before they decided they’d had their fun and kicked him from heaven.  _

_ “This is because of your sins,” Gabriel had said, sneering him in that horrible way that he always did. “You tempted an Angel. You fell in love with him, you tried to make him fall in love with you too. That’s three sins on top of your previous ones.” _

_ The diluted holy water they had used to torture him was still burning his throat. He retched as he fell, hitting someone’s window with a loud crack.  _

_ The last thing he saw before blacking out completely was a crowd gathering above him. _

He had heard the noise of someone falling and looked outside. It honestly was quite a sight—someone with half a set of wings, collapsed on the ground in front of a building with something white in their mouth.

Wait. Wings.

Aziraphale teleported himself to the ground, pushing through people and trying not to hurt anyone as he made his way to the front of the crowd. The people who stood around the scene were gaping in awe, seemingly at whoever was in the middle of them. His heart sank. The black wings and tattered clothes were unmistakable, even from this distance. He took a step closer, pushing away a girl with a cell phone.

Sure enough, there in the middle of the street was Crowley, his one remaining wing twitching as he lay there on the ground in front of the skyscraper, a smudge of blood and feathers smeared across the window of the building. His clothes were ripped in many places, including around his wing, and he had lost both his necktie and his jacket as well as one of his boots. 

In an instant, he had miracled everyone’s interest elsewhere and managed to drag him out of the road, and had propped him up against a nearby building. 

“Crowley!” He couldn’t help but scream, pulling him up into a sitting position and grimacing at the blood pouring from the gap where his wing used to be. In response, he got nothing but a dazed moan. He seemed so… out of it. In a moment, Aziraphale understood why. There were enormous cross-shaped burns all over his face and hands. The gag in his mouth—that was what it was, after all, a gag—was drenched in what Aziraphale knew had to be Holy water. 

“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” he said, trying to force the panic out of his voice. If anyone had the right to be panicking, it certainly wasn’t him. He was perfectly fine—not even a scratch. Crowley was the one he should be worrying about. 

Looking around to see if anyone was nearby, and seeing the coast was clear, he managed to pick him up and carry him into the bookshop. Luckily, there was an available couch that he had cleared off only days before, and he set Crowley down there. 

Finally, he gave himself a moment to breathe. Crowley was—well, if not safe, he was out of harm’s way at the very least. He looked like he was still alive, which was good. After he had adjusted him into a more comfortable-looking position on the couch, he sat down beside him, brushing a lock of overlong, matted red hair out of his eyes gently.

He didn’t seem to notice, merely batted his arm away with one blood-soaked hand—oh God, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the blood. That was even worse than the missing wing, which he still had yet to treat properly. 

A quick examination of his injuries revealed that he had been force-fed something Holy—most likely Holy water, if he had to guess, and he had been burned by a crucifix and the Holy water-soaked gag. Those would take much longer to heal.

Picking up a roll of bandages, he set to work on Crowley’s wing. Or, well, where it used to be. He tried miracles first, but they did nearly nothing, just made the pain worse judging by the way Crowley twitched every time he tried. It took the better part of three hours, but he managed to remove the shards of bone lodged in his shoulder, and had even bandaged up the wound in his back before Crowley woke up.

“Where—where am I? Who are you?!” His voice was choked and panicked, and Aziraphale could feel the Holy water that had scorched his throat. “What’s—wait, angel?”

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said softly, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“We—you have to get out. If they find you, they’ll—” Crowley shuddered violently, and Aziraphale was hit once again by panic.  _ Who did this to him? _

“If who finds us? Crowley, please just tell me what’s wrong.” 

There was a pause as Crowley seemed to realize his wing was gone. Maybe it was leaning back and feeling nothing touch the couch beside his skin, maybe he had just felt the burning in his shoulder, but somehow he realized that it had been torn from him. His face fell, and he ran a hand over the place where his wing used to be. After a moment, he sighed and changed form, his wing vanishing for a moment before reappearing, pushing through his shirt. He got up from the couch with great difficulty, a look of utter defeat on his face.

“What? Where are you going?”

“Hell. Where did you think I would go? I need to—” He stumbled and fell, supporting himself against a table stacked with dusty books. 

“Hell isn’t safe for you,” Aziraphale said, reaching for his arm. Crowley just pulled away, searching for his glasses but finding nothing. He sat down again, with nowhere else to go, and wrapped his one remaining wing around himself.

“Where am I supposed to go? Up-There? Because we all know how well that would go. Look at this. They took my  _ wing, _ ” Crowley said, his voice plaintive and soft. Aziraphale felt a twinge of pain. He knew how precious Crowley’s wings were to him. They were his last reminder of the Angel he used to be, and the life he used to live. If someone had taken his wing—and by the condition of his other wing, they had tried to take both—they hadn’t been just trying to hurt him. They’d been trying to humiliate him as well.

“I know. I’m sorry. But you have to stay, just so I can treat you, alright? If you want, I can even do it without using any miracles, if that will make you feel better.” He was grasping at straws, and he knew it. Hopefully, this would make him stay, but honestly, if Crowley hadn’t been in so much pain, he would definitely be flying off to Heaven and giving them a piece of his mind as fast as he could.

“Dammit, angel, why do I listen to you?” 

Thankfully, blessedly, Crowley sat back down on the couch, glaring up at Aziraphale with no real venom. Aziraphale ignored him and got to work on Crowley’s wing again. 

It looked like it hurt. After all, there was so much damage that it was a miracle he was still alive. Several of his primaries had been torn out, and the bone was broken in three places. He tried to miracle it better, but the miracles didn’t work on him. There was nothing he could do except hope he could set the bone properly without hurting Crowley too much.

“I think I can heal your wing at least a little bit,” he said cautiously, picking up the bandages again and taking Crowley’s wing in both hands, setting the bone back into place. He felt Crowley take a sharp breath in, and winced, still not wanting to hurt him. 

“Just do it quickly,” he said with a sigh, stretching his shoulders back for a moment before settling back into his usual position. Aziraphale braced himself and wrapped the wing into a closed position, making sure to support the bone as best as he could. He felt it set into place, but it still hung limp. Wrapping it against his body was probably useless, but it was something to support his back as well. 

“There. That should be enough, I think.” He took a step back. Crowley looked over his shoulder and stretched it, trying to make sure his wing was okay. 

His eyes fell upon the bandages covering where his other wing used to be. Aziraphale felt the complete emotional stress rolling off of Crowley. He actually saw the light leaving his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“I forgot it was gone,” he said softly, closing his eyes. “I forgot—”

“I know.” Aziraphale gently put his arm around Crowley. He hissed loudly and pulled away, his hand going to his shoulder and covering it gently. 

Oh. He had forgotten about the burns. Crowley sat there, looking absolutely pitiful. It didn’t suit him at all, the kicked-puppy expression. Aziraphale took a deep breath and gently moved Crowley’s hand, running his thumb gently over the burn and numbing the pain with a miracle. He couldn’t heal it, of course, Demonic wounds were impossible to heal with Angelic magic, but he could at least make it stop hurting him so much.

“Oh.” Crowley sighed in relief, relaxing back into the chair before his wing bent painfully and he had to sit back up. “Oh, that was—can you do that to my other burns, too?”

Aziraphale set to work, finding every burn that was visible and gently using a small miracle to numb them. It was an incredibly long process, and he was sure he hadn’t found them all, but Crowley looked like he had never felt better. He was glad to see that—he saw how painful it had been for him before, and was genuinely scared, but this made him feel a bit safer.

“That was—”

“Heavenly?” Aziraphale said, just a hint of humor in it. Crowley glared up at him and leaned back on the couch, making sure to adjust the position of his wing so that it wouldn’t bend wrong. He watched Crowley half out of worry, trying to ensure he wouldn’t hurt himself. 

“My throat’s still all—holy, I guess,” he said, and Aziraphale tried not to notice how rough and ragged his breathing sounded. “Can you—is there anything you can do?”

“Certainly.” He gently ran his hand down the side of Crowley’s neck, and willed the pain away. It couldn’t be healed, just numbed, but it was better than nothing. Evidently Crowley thought so too, from the way that he visibly relaxed after Aziraphale moved his hand away. 

“God, that’s nice,” he sighed. “Dunno how long the numbness is going to last, but it’ll be good while it does, I think.”

“Do you want some tea?” Aziraphale inquired, gently brushing Crowley’s hair out of his face yet again. It was really quite long at this point, and matted in several places. He ran his hand gently through Crowley’s hair, trying not to hurt him even though he could feel the knots tearing as he did. Crowley flinched, Aziraphale’s attempts at helping just making the pain worse.

“I should just cut it at this point,” Crowley said with a sigh, pushing it out of his face with one hand. “I could do with a trim anyway. Hopefully it won’t look too ridiculous. I don’t remember how I even look with short hair, is that weird?”

“You’d look lovely,” Aziraphale said, standing up and walking over to his kitchen. “I think that it would suit you, but I could just miracle it better again if you want to keep it long.”

“Would you?” Crowley stretched, his wing twitching violently as he did. “If you, er, if you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

“Of course I can,” he said, filling up the tea kettle and miracling it to a boil. He dropped in a few tea bags, smiling at Crowley with celestial light. Crowley looked back at him, his eyes still red with tears. “Now. It’s chamomile, it’ll help you sleep better when you finally go to bed.”

“Ugh, you’re too good to me, angel,” Crowley said, already half-asleep. When Aziraphale returned, he handed Crowley the cup of tea, still warm but not scalding hot. 

“Nonsense. I’m not too good. It’s not possible—I am an Angel after all.” Crowley rolled his eyes, taking a sip of tea. 

“Can you—can you fix my hair?” He seemed soft, quiet almost. Not the usual Crowley at all. 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Now. On the floor, I can’t fix your hair if you’re lounging about on the couch like this.”

Crowley obliged, sitting obediently on the soft carpet. He seemed incredibly young at that moment, curled up on the floor next to a pile of overstuffed pillows. And somehow, the one wing had grown on him. It seemed endearing, if not a little tragic. 

“Your hair is so nice when it’s long,” Aziraphale said offhandedly, gently running his hands through Crowley’s hair. Miraculously, it was perfectly easy to untangle the mats in his hair, and his hands left Crowley’s hair shiny and soft and perfectly clean. 

“Shut up. No it’s not,” he said, going red. Aziraphale felt his aura shift from relaxation to slight embarrassment. 

“It is. It’s adorable, and I like it.” 

“What are you—’s not  _ adorable,  _ you stupid angel, I can’t be adorable. I’m a Demon. Adorable isn’t in my vocabulary.”

“Handsome, then. Is handsome in the vocabulary of a Demon?” He was just teasing him at this point, but it was good to see that Crowley was just a little happier now. 

“I’m not settling for anything less than ‘terrifying’,” Crowley said, tossing his hair. Aziraphale chose not to comment on that, and instead just kept on brushing out his hair. He was nearly halfway done, which was good, since Crowley was getting impatient and starting to fidget.

“Oh, shut up, you. You’re handsome.” 

Crowley hissed in mock disapproval, flipping Aziraphale off, but he could feel Crowley’s aura, warm and pleased. It was so nice to see him happy again that Aziraphale almost forgot what he was meant to be doing, and took a moment just to take in the pure light that was shining off of Crowley.

“Are you done?” Crowley asked, his voice sharp. 

“Nearly. Just give me a few more minutes, I promise I’ll be done then,” Aziraphale said. Crowley sighed, annoyed, but sat still and let Aziraphale finish with his hair. It took only a few more minutes until he was done, and Crowley ran his hands through his hair experimentally. Horrifyingly enough, there were more injuries that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed at first, including at least three missing nails and a huge gash on his palm. The rest of his nails were still caked in blood, and Aziraphale made a note to get him cleaned up later—he was in no state to be doing that himself, not for a while. 

“It’s… it’s nice. Thank you, angel.”

“It’s no problem at all, my darling Demon,” Aziraphale said softly, pulling back Crowley’s hair and miracling up a ribbon to hold it back with. “There. Now it’ll be out of your face. How do you like it?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.” Crowley stood, leaning heavily on the couch, and collapsed next to Aziraphale with a loud sigh. 

“Tired?”

“God, angel, you don’t even know,” he said, letting his head rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He felt a sudden burst of joy at just how much the Demon trusted him—if it were anyone else, even Anathema or Newt, he would have just denied their help and tried to handle it himself, which would probably have resulted in a good deal of infection at the very best.

“Well, shall I help you wash up, then?” Aziraphale asked, noticing how Crowley’s eyes widened and his pupils flickered just slightly thinner at the idea of it.

“Er—that’s very kind of you, angel, but I can do it myself. I’m a perfectly self-sufficient Demon, I think I’m capable of showering on my own.” He laughed, but it was forced and rough, and Aziraphale realized that there was definitely something Crowley wasn’t telling him. He didn’t know what it was about, but it was definitely something bad, especially since he saw the hesitation on Crowley’s face as he smiled, trying to convince Aziraphale that nothing was wrong.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale said sharply. He jumped. Evidently he hadn’t been expecting Aziraphale to use his human name. Crowley looked up at him, his eyes wide and pleading. The slits of his pupils got larger, and a tiny twinge of sadness wormed its way into his expression. “Anthony, you need help. You know you need help. Just let me fix you. Please.”

Crowley sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes. “God. Fine. You can—whatever you want, just don’t be upset.”

“Oh, my darling, why on earth would I be upset by you?” Aziraphale said softly, leaning down so their foreheads touched. “I love you, my dear, and nothing would change that. No matter what you’re worried about happening when I see you, I promise it won’t.”

At this, Crowley teared up, burying his face in Aziraphale’s chest. He didn’t even mind that the blood would ruin his jacket, he just wanted to make sure that Crowley was alright. 

“Mmh—angel, I’m scared,” he said softly into Aziraphale’s shoulder, tears starting to stream down his face. “I don’t want you to—to be mad at me.”

“I could never be angry at you, dear.” 

Reluctantly, Crowley followed Aziraphale into the tiny attached bathroom, tugging on the tattered remains of his shirt. He watched as Aziraphale ran a bath, shying away slightly from the water. Surely he was remembering the incident in Hell. 

“Here. You need to get rid of the shirt, at least. It’s not doing you any good, and it’ll get in the way of me cleaning your wings. Will you let me?”

“I can do it myself,” Crowley said, his voice slightly bitter. He tugged up on his collar, pulling the burnt, torn shirt over his head and crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. 

“Here, turn around so I can clean your wing wound, okay?” 

Crowley hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. Aziraphale could see his fangs piercing through his lower lip as he worried about it. After a long, long moment of agonizing over it, he turned around, shoulders rising so they practically touched his ears.

“Oh my God.” Aziraphale gasped, at a loss for words. 

On Crowley’s back, burned into the flesh so deep it was scarring over already, was the word FALLEN. It had to have been burned in with something Holy. Probably something they had blessed, or a knife that was used for consecration. It was scabbed over with nearly-black blood, and every time Aziraphale touched it, Crowley flinched violently and looked back over his shoulder with enormous, sad eyes.

“I could feel what they wrote,” he said quietly. “It hurts even more than when I Fell in the first place.”

“I’m so sorry, Crowley.” Aziraphale paused. “Do you want a hug?” 

In response, Crowley just turned and pulled him into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. Aziraphale didn’t know how to comfort him. This was a wound far too deep to heal with just a few kind words and a good night’s sleep. He knew that it might not be in his power to heal this now. Maybe ever.

But for now, as Crowley cried in his arms, he knew that he was going to try.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to em, noor, and beckett who beta read this absolute goblin of a fic. thanks for reading my friends!! and i'm so sorry. i'm very sorry.
> 
> (if it was sad enough, please comment yelling at me for doing this to Our Boys!)


End file.
